MURDER IN PEMBROKESHIRE an absolutely gripping crime mystery full of twists (Tyrone Swift Detective , GRETTA MULROONEY [books to read now .txt] 📗

There were no police cars around. When his phone came to life, he saw that DS Spencer had texted him a thumbs up about Trevor Wright. He called the hospital, enquired about Sofia and was given the neutral response of ‘Ms Weber is comfortable’. Next, he phoned Spencer. ‘Thanks for the alibi confirmation.’

‘That’s okay. We’ve removed Caris’s body. We’re on our way back to Tir Melys to talk to everyone, including you.’

‘How did Caris die?’

‘Stabbed in the back. That’s all I can tell you.’

‘Time of death?’

Spencer spoke as if he was reading from a crib sheet. ‘I can’t share that information with you. Enquiries are ongoing.’

Not going very far with you in charge. ‘I wondered if you’re going to have to include all the people who came to the concert in your questioning.’

‘What I said before,’ Spencer said in a robotic voice.

He’d better not push the sergeant’s limited skill set. ‘Okay. Have you informed anyone about Caris’s death yet? Other than her mother, that is.’

‘Just her mam and Morgan.’

Good. ‘I’m sending you the recording of a conversation I had with Elinor Brinkworth in the early hours of this morning. It’s significant. Can you speak to me first when you arrive? I’ll be at the cottage.’

Spencer agreed. Swift made one more call, a crucial one, and left a voicemail saying he’d visit during the morning. He drove to where he’d left Afan’s bike, managed to wedge it in the boot of the car and took it back, where he stored it in the shed. He retreated to the cottage, made coffee and stayed there until Spencer arrived. He didn’t want to mix with any of the others until they’d been questioned.

He gave Spencer a coffee, watching as he stirred in four sugars.

‘Thanks for this — I haven’t slept. The boss has made a tiny bit of improvement,’ Spencer said, holding a forefinger and thumb up a centimetre apart.

‘That’s good. Let’s hope she continues to fight back. It would be welcome news for her to hear that this killer, or killers, are in custody. Probably do her as much good as the medical treatment.’

‘Yeah.’ Spencer didn’t sound optimistic.

Swift shoved the biscuit tin to him and went through an account of the previous night.

‘You should report that someone tried to run you down,’ Spencer said, focusing on the least important issue.

‘Maybe I will. Have you listened to the recording I sent you?’

Spencer dunked a biscuit in his coffee. His colour was high. ‘Not yet, I had to get other stuff organised.’

Swift saw that he was flustered and unsure. He said impatiently, ‘You need to, and talk to Elinor Brinkworth next. She has vital information about Caris and Gwyn Bowen.’

‘Okay. I hope there’s going to be some forensics back on Caris’s body, something to give us a steer. Her mam’s in bits. My mam’s taken her and Morgan into her house.’

‘Morgan’s here?’

‘Yeah. He turned up early this morning. He’s all over the place. My mam’s letting him stay with her so he can keep his head down, out of Calvin’s way.’

‘He’ll need to.’

He said wistfully, ‘My mam’ll be good with him. She likes having someone to organise and boss, she’ll be in her element. She’ll do his laundry and make him humongous dinners.’

‘You’re used to having a strong woman in your life, DS Spencer.’

‘Oh . . . yeah, that’s right. You can call me Spence by the way, everyone does.’

‘If you’re needing a steer, here’s one for you,’ Swift said as Spencer finished his coffee. ‘Think of those grave goods. Why did someone put them by Afan and come back here for the book to place on his body?’

Spencer rubbed his forehead. ‘The book? Oh, yeah. Is that important?’

‘I’ll leave it with you.’

* * *

In the bookshop, Swift perused the local history section while Gwyn Bowen answered a phone query. The shop was empty as usual. When she’d finished, he went to the desk. He was about to wing it, but it wouldn’t be the first time. She wore black jeans and a grey T-shirt. Her hair was tied back in a red cotton scarf and draped across one shoulder.

When she saw his face she said, ‘Have you been in an accident?’

‘Sort of. It’s not that bad.’

‘I got your message,’ she said. ‘Something about Caris?’

‘That’s right.’

‘I’ve been out of my mind with worry. Is there any news?’ She was pallid, the usual peach bloom on her cheeks dimmed.

He’d thought that the Holybridge bush telegraph might already have informed her and was relieved that she hadn’t heard. ‘Can we talk somewhere less public?’

‘Okay. We can go upstairs to my flat. I’ll just lock the door.’

He watched her slip the sign to Closed and turn the key in the door. She was light on her feet, in flat shoes decorated with little silvery bows. He followed her up narrow, creaking stairs.

‘Watch your head at the top here,’ she called. ‘You’ll need to duck.’

He bent under the lintel and through the low doorway. She led him into a spacious sitting room with a deep bay window jutting over the narrow street. The furniture was old and shabby, the walls were painted off-white. The slanting floorboards gleamed warmly with wax and she’d added colour with batik throws similar to the ones he’d seen in Morgan’s flat.

‘Have a seat. That armchair’s the comfiest. Tea or coffee?’

‘No thanks. Have you heard from Bryn Price?’

She sat opposite him and frowned. ‘Bryn? No.’

‘He was hoping to talk to you after the concert on Sunday night, but you’d gone.’

‘I was tired and worried about Caris. I wanted to get back, call in to see her mam. Bryn has my number.’

‘The Merchants have agreed to sell to the community, which is good news. He thinks you